


SICK

by Prototype



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: F/M, Rape, Sadism, Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-24
Updated: 2013-02-24
Packaged: 2017-12-03 11:59:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/698013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prototype/pseuds/Prototype
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This was a challenge posted on MCRF, where all of my fics were first posted. The challenge was to portray Gerard as a sadistic serial killer and the consequences of that. <br/>It's pretty stupid and overtly disgusting - hope you enjoy!</p>
            </blockquote>





	SICK

**SICK**

 

 

It’s all a trick. 

It’s all just smoke and mirrors, pet. You understand that, right? Oh, Nevermind – it doesn’t matter, I’m about to explain it for you anyway. 

It’s all about how you lay your cards down on the table. It’s how you wave your hands and distract your audience and make them look where you want them. Even when they don’t think you know they’re watching. 

That’s why everytime I draw a girl, I give her black hair. Eyeliner. Liprings, nose studs, eyebrow bars – the works. I make them dark and Gothic and dead. 

It’s all a trick. Even the dead part. 

I don’t like girls with black, or dark hair. Not sure why, but I prefer blondes. I hate too much eyeliner, which is just silly because I wear so much of it…as for facial jewellery – can’t stand the shit. Needles and pain for a tiny glint of metal. Just ruins the face. And as for the dead part, I don’t like it when they’re dead. 

Bodies are hard to get rid of. 

I like it when they’re dying. 

They get more…honest then. Human. 

You may think you know me, darlings, but you haven’t even started to yet. You look at me with that erotic mixture of awe, envy and undeniable lust – and you think you know who you’re looking at. 

‘Oh, poor Gerard Way, grew up repressed and bullied and alone. Oh, deep Gerard Way, his lyrics are so beautiful. Oh, isn’t he gorgeous, fuckable, the sweetest little music nerd you’ve ever seen with his nose in his comic book and his horror movie t shirt?’

For fucks sake. 

“It’s exhausting,” I told her, sitting down on the chair I’d left in the middle of the room. I slid my elbows forward on my spread knees, leaning forward and resting my chin on my netted fingers. My eyes stayed glittering, watching her. 

Of course, I didn’t expect her to say anything back. She’d learnt by now. It’d taken her so much longer than the others. 

“It’s just exhausting, constantly watching myself not to give myself away. Everyone’s gotta believe it,” I said, shaking my hair slightly, tsking myself for living such a performance. “They’ve gotta think I’m sweet and shy and kinda crazy, but harmless…God, imagine that?” I asked, laughing, pointing at her. “Now you’re thinking ‘Harmless? This guy? Jesus!’, aren’t you?”

I waited. 

“Well aren’t you?!” I yelled, clicking my fingers. 

She shook. 

“Yes, sir,”

I smiled. 

“I knew it,”

I stood up again. My blazer jacket was hooked over the back of the chair, my blood red tie left over the top – in case I got blood on it for real. I went to unbutton my shirt, the heat of the room getting to me. 

You’ve seen the magic tricks, now I’ll let you in on the secrets behind it. You deserve it, I reckon – not like you can ever stop me. 

 

 

Born, raised, beaten, loved, fucked, sucked, found, lost, abandoned, cherished and then released. I’ve been through enough of life to understand it’s value. The value of blood on your fingers, still warm and tangy. The quality of a pulse slowing under your tongue. The price of eyes growing dim and breathing slowing to a halt as you finish off another pointless, relentless, beautiful life. 

I always choose the same girls. 

Blonde, petite – slim, with narrow hips and huge tits. I like narrow hips, makes me think of young, innocent virgins even though these girls are anything but mostly. Huge tits because…fuck it, I’m a guy, I like to have something to aim for. 

I like them with big, big eyes – deer eyes. I like them to have full lips. I like them to have soft, girly voices. I like them to have tiny wrists. I like them breakable. I like them weak. 

Rewind a bit, before I show you the main act. 

Pressure of success led to…sick habits, I think my brother called it. I always liked to play games with my women, tying them up, handcuffs, bondage, all that – but it started getting a bit more sick as I dived further into drinking, drugs, groupies and rock ‘nd roll. I found I liked to hurt them, beat them…torture them. 

Of course, this discovery was kept private. Private. Like a secret – one I only shared with the women I killed. 

I choose them carefully, and I only let myself indulge every so often, about once every three months. I have to be careful – I’m infamous, my face is known throughout the world and the internet, whichever’s more dangerous. I’m too gorgeous to slip out of the limelight for long. 

I met this one at a bar. I walked in and she caught my eye instantly. Within minutes, my tongue was gracing her earlobe, whispering dirty little ideas that brought a smile to her face and her hand to her purse – leaving with me. I took her back to my hotel room, promising satisfaction. 

I meant mine. 

Another trick, yeah?

What we did first isn’t your business, let’s just say we’re both filthy now, and the bed sheets are crusty. Then came the real fun. 

“Please…”

My dog spoke out of turn, I went over to her and struck her soundly. “Only when called for,” I reminded her. 

The creature nodded, her face creasing up in pain and anguish, bemoaning her fate. The hotel bed, the enormous double thing, was pushed upwards, a forty five degree angle up the wall…maybe sharper. Her arms were chained to the top, her feet to the bottom. She had been gagged, but now it just hung around her neck. 

Her beautifully fragile neck, turning purple with the bruises. 

 

 

_Destruction…_

_It’s all a trick._

_It’s all just smoke and mirrors, pet. You understand that, right? Oh, Nevermind – it doesn’t matter, I’m about to explain it for you anyway._

_It’s all about how you lay your cards down on the table. It’s how you wave your hands and distract your audience and make them look where you want them. Even when they don’t think you know they’re watching._

_That’s why everytime I draw a girl, I give her black hair. Eyeliner. Liprings, nose studs, eyebrow bars – the works. I make them dark and Gothic and dead._

_It’s all a trick. Even the dead part._

_I don’t like girls with black, or dark hair. Not sure why, but I prefer blondes. I hate too much eyeliner, which is just silly because I wear so much of it…as for facial jewellery – can’t stand the shit. Needles and pain for a tiny glint of metal. Just ruins the face. And as for the dead part, I don’t like it when they’re dead._

_Bodies are hard to get rid of._

_I like it when they’re dying._

_They get more…honest then. Human._

_You may think you know me, darlings, but you haven’t even started to yet. You look at me with that erotic mixture of awe, envy and undeniable lust – and you think you know who you’re looking at._

I thought I did, once upon a time…I thought we were best friends. We grew up in the same neighbourhoods, watched the same movies, listened to the same piss rock, went to the same parties. I knew you went in for weird shit…bondage, comic books, blood and guts and zombie shit, but this. 

I knew you were weird but I didn’t know you were _sick_. 

God, I didn’t know whether I felt like crying or throwing up, I was torn up. My best friend…a murdering psychotic freak! 

When you were drinking all the time and driving yourself into rock bottom, I knew what to say to you, how to react. When you were snorting anything, smoking everything, taking whatever came your way, it was still ok – you were Gerard, my fucked up buddy. The guy who liked to watch X factor with me and take the piss, the guy who left his shoes in the fridge so they didn’t stink out the bus. The kid who played Peter Pan at school, drew comics about adopted superheroes, who always wanted to be on the hockey team but never could because you were asthmatic (and told me that if I ever told anyone you wanted to be a hockey player, you’d kill me…didn’t believe you back then…).

Jesus fucking Christ!

I knew something was wrong when you’d disappear once a month for about a day, and come back with the most indulgent, smug smile I’ve ever seen. You’d come back, freshly showered, clean hair, nice clothes – all signs you’d done something terrible. It wasn’t drinking, or drugs, I knew that. It was something so, so worse. I guess being a rockstar was the ticket to these kind of perks. 

I bet management turned a blind eye…fuck, they probably _helped you get rid of the bodies!_

I was sitting on the bus floor in between the bunks. I’d slumped down there, unable to feel my legs, when I found it all. I was looking for my book in your bunk, you’re always borrowing my shit, you arsehole.   

God, it seems so petty to get angry at you over something as small as _that_ , with all this staring me in the face!

I was rootling under your mattress, at the sides of the bunk and I hit something cold and metallic. A padlock. My curiosity got the better of me – I knew you were out doing whatever it was you did once a month. Knowing that’s where you are makes me retch, and I vomit messily onto your mattress, jerking forward – over the evidence, keeping it as clean as possible. It’s covered in my fingerprints now.

Shit, I’ve gotta call the police. 

I’m in shock, I can’t move. All I can do is stare…once I’d found that padlock, I’d unscrewed the sides of the catches, pushing your mattress up and out of the way. The bottom of the bunk was hollow, bolted shut…I’d never thought to check under here when you were taking drugs. Once I get it open, the smell hits me first. 

It’s so… fresh, and _minty_. You over compensating sick fuck, you’ve planned this – God knows how long this shit’s been in here! There’s so much!! Apart from the layers of those pine fresh air scenters, those little packets of silicon that kept clothes dry, there’s…mementoes. 

Photos. 

Polaroids, to be exact. Shit loads of them. So many I can’t even pull them all out, my eyes taking snapshots in. 

Shoes, on the floor, abandoned, splattered with something dark. 

A knife, embedded in wood, forming a scarlet puddle. It’s a hotel room, I can see it in the background. 

A girl’s eyes – streamed with tears and eyeliner. 

A hand, handcuffed, stretched across a rumbled, stained bed sheet. The wrist gashed so deeply I can see white bone. 

The side of a woman’s face, her scalp torn so the blonde hair is matted with blood, her eyes closed. 

Another one, her eyes open this time, one gouged out, the another staring straight through the glossy shine – a silent scream of help. 

Jesus, her eyes are so blue. 

Each one is like a horrific joke. Some are so beautifully taken as well, artistic in their gruesome way…I almost thought he’d been buying faked torture porn to jack off too…and then I picked up the one resting on the top of the small scattered pile in front of me. 

It’s a level I never thought I could see him sink to. He’s next to her, the girl crucified to the bed. He’s standing next to her, taking a picture of them together. It’s…it’s horrific. He’s smirking, a devilish smile – one to make fangirls swoon. He’s…oh God, I’m going to puke again!…he’s sewn her mouth into a smile.

Blood’s soaking her chin and neck, her eyes rolled back in absolutely terror…her lips are sewn together, the corners stitched upwards…it’s worse because, apart from the blood, she looks like she’s smiling naturally…

There are more like that…they get worse as I grabbed them, too shocked to form a single coherent thought that wasn’t Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit!

One girl, short blonde hair, gagging on his fingers down her throat, her teeth shattered into her jaw. I recognise his nail polish…Jesus Christ. 

Another, he’s kissing her and he’s already cut her lips and cheeks off – half a fucking face left for him to kiss. He looks so…happy. 

I vomit again, it spews down my front, my stomach lurching unexpectantly. 

I found one, the blue eyed one again…my hand shakes…he’s skull fucking her…he’s _fucking_ her empty eye socket. 

Her mouth’s open in a wretched scream as something white dribbles…there are so many photos of that girl…he coated her, he must have done it over and over and over again, cutting more holes in her. 

I have to close my eyes – try and fucking block this! It’s impossible, it’s like a horrible joke! I can see every single picture in my head. It can’t be real, please, God, don’t let this be real! I read about these fucks on the internet, in newspaper, they make me sick…don’t tell me I’ve been sharing a bus with one of them! 

I have to shove the photos away, the hundreds of different blonde girls staring at me – begging, screaming, dying as he took their fucking picture. I can’t believe this…

If that’s not enough, there’s a book. It’s huge, an A3 sketchbook, bursting with extra pages. It’s one of those psychotic things you get in murder movies – Red Dragon, Identity, Seven…lunatics keep books because they want someone, someday, to read about them and understand why they do it. 

It doesn’t even close properly. 

I can’t bear to read his spidery handwriting, but I can’t seem to stop, the book laid open for me to see everything. Tiny, tiny writing, crammed in – filling the pages, edging around photographs of the girls – mapping out every single conquest of his. 

Their names are written huge, entwined with doodled flowers and hearts…that sick fuck. He even gave them marks out of ten. 

He writes about how he met them, how he seduced them, took them back to the hotel room and then…everytime it was the same, what he did to them. He fucked them senseless, giving them more and more to drink as he satisfied them over and over again, loving them until they were exhausted and weak and slicked with sweat. He brought out the camera and they let him, fame-happy and still gorgeous. He bought out the handcuffs and they let him, licking their lips in anticipation. 

It was when he tied them down and then knocked them unconscious it went wrong. They woke up, still tied to a bed that was shoved and moved until it leant against the wall at a slope. Their bodies slumped down, the pain of their wrists and ankles waking them up. When they finally managed to scream, he warned them not to – it’d hurt more that way. 

It changed sometimes, with everyone he got meaner, rougher, more disgusting – he was testing himself. Testing his limits. Finding out just how sick and twisted he was inside. I could imagine the almost childlike joy he felt as he found delight and satisfaction in every new trick and toy. 

He wanted to know everything about them as he hurt them. He asked questions. Their names, ages, pets, parents, homes. What was their favourite birthday? Movie? Band? What did they like to eat? What made them feel happy? He wanted to know every single perverted and mundane thought and memory inside their pretty blonde heads…he forced them to tell him [I] _everything_ [/I].

The first one was his longest entry – it went on for pages and pages, his actions on her body and inside it. What he found, what he did…what with. It’s so disgusting I’m in shock, I’m hardly taking it in anymore. I’m just reading the words, feeling them soak into me like worms. They wriggle and squirm inside my head, certain words stinging my eyes with the first prickle of tears. It’s not the horrible things behind it that I can feel hurting me, it’s not the rape and torture and murder – it’s just the tiny words, harmless words…on their own, they’re nothing. 

I used to love them, they meant a good night in with a movie sometimes, or a comic book…but now…it was just real life. 

Blood…trickling…crunch, snap…slit, cut, tear, rip, gouge, stab, slice…kiss…

He talks about her, the first one, as if he loves her – he coveted her body as he massacred it, kissing and crying over each wound he gave her, holding her in his arms as she finally died, skinless and slippery with blood, cursing his name as he pressed her descried mouth to his chest – suffocating her hatred. 

He writes about how, even after she had slipped away, he stayed with her body, stroking it and dissecting it, playing with her until she stopped being a _she_.

He never writes, once, about what he did with their remains, the corpses. The entries just filter off when he’s lost interest and the camera’s run out. 

The last thing in the bunk’s a heavy metal box with a heavy lock on it – I can’t open it, and something tells me I really don’t want to. Later, I found out it was full of teeth and fingernails. I feel exhausted…sick. My skin’s frozen but my hearts going a million a minute, my pulse quick and my breathing just as fast. I won’t stop shaking like a fucking leaf, everything’s so drained I just want to collapse…what do I do? What can I do? Oh shit, this is so fucked up…

“I should call the police,” I tell myself, my voice trembling. And then an image of Gerard’s face comes to mind and a memory of us just hanging out together, best friends…who am I meant to bully and tease backstage? Who am I meant to play Pokemon with at 3 in the morning when the rumbling of the bus keeps me awake? Who am I meant to text or call whenever I’m bored? Who am I meant to rely on, trust, love without him there? Beside me all the time, my partner in crime, my loyal general…my _best friend_.   

I can’t stop myself curling forward, my knees drawn up either side of my head and my hands cupping my face, moaning in the back of my throat, feeling tears and mucus coat my palms as I struggle not to cry openly – I can’t keep this inside for once. 

He’s hurt me so deeply. 

“Toro?”

I don’t jump at the sound of his voice – I probably heard the footsteps approach, but didn’t take them in. I don’t scream, even though the thought crosses my mind. I don’t even move, I just keep sobbing into my chest. 

“Jesus Toro, what’s-“

He’s gotten close enough into the bunk areas to see what surrounds me and his voice cuts off dead. I don’t hear a sound from him, forcing myself to lift my head and meet his eyes. Whatever concern he had for me when he heard me crying, whatever friendly emotion he was feeling, it vanished as soon as the blood drenched photographs and the gaping book came into view – his private hell on show for the world to gawp at. 

“Gerard…” I whispered quietly. “How could you?”

His expression was closed down – dead. Like those girls. He didn’t seem to know what to do, or what to say. I couldn’t read him. 

“You shouldn’t have gone in there,”

His voice was quiet, velvety…but hard – angry. Like he was scolding a small child. I willed my legs to lift myself up, shuddering as I stood up. He didn’t move, his hand resting on the doorway. 

“How could you?!”

His eyes were fixed on the book. I could tell he wanted to save it, grab it and run. I stepped towards him, anger setting into my bones. “How could you, you sick fuck!!”

He didn’t move one inch until I grabbed him and pushed him down, smacking his head on the side of the bus, before kicking him roughly in the stomach. 

All the pain of those girls that went from the photos into me, now flowed out through my aching, sweating muscles as I kicked and hit my once best mate until he was a brand new colour. He didn’t cry out or moan in pain but…he started laughing. 

The fuck started _laughing_. 

No matter how often I kicked him, I punched his jaw or eyes, yelled in his face, cursed and swore and called him every name I could think of, he wouldn’t stop laughing. He was enjoying this…he was giggling in joy as I laid into him. 

I grabbed his shirt, pulling him up to spit in his bleeding, swollen face. “WHY THE FUCK ARE YOU LAUGHING LIKE THAT?!”

He forced his eyes out, his mouth curved into a lazy, satisfied smirk. His teeth were rimmed with blackened blood, making the inside of his smile demonic. His eyes were swollen, purple and glinting at me – daring me to punch him again, his insides bleeding out onto the floor. I was beating him to death, enraged and filthy now with puke, sweat, blood and tears. 

“YOU SICK, SICK FUCK! WHY ARE YOU LAUGHING?!” I screamed, dropping him, slamming his head down on the floor and pinning my kneecap onto his throat, my bared teeth close to his face as I yelled. “TELL ME!!”

He giggled again, strangulated and coughing up more blood to dribble down his crusted face. He never looked better than when he was covered in blood…that satanic son of a bitch. 

His eyes opened again – staring straight at me as his laughter rolled out, as normal as ever. One broken, bloodied hand raised – beckoning me down to hear his hoarse whisper. 

My face lowered until my ear was right next to his cut, sizzling lips – his body rolling in heat. His voice sent shivers through my entire body, my skin prickling with fear. The words tasted like poison, drowning out screaming inside my head. 

“I’m laughing…because she’s still out there…waiting for me to come back…and let her out…”

My breath caught in my throat, teeth gritted. Violence flowed out of me again – slamming knuckles into his soft face. 

“You fuck!! Who?! Where is she?!”

The name got caught on his teeth as they snapped out of his jaw… “Tally…”

My girl. _My_ girl. 

I keep telling them I blacked out, over and over again. I keep telling them I didn’tknow what I was doing, I couldn’t stop myself. As soon as my girlfriend’s name slipped past his sadistic lips, I was gone. Just a violent, blood thirsty shell. My fists swung until it felt like the bones were snapping, hitting soft, squishy flesh. Unmoving flesh. Cold flesh. 

I don’t remember being pulled away, I don’t remember being taken away. All I can remember was howling for his blood, cursing his name – screaming for Tally. When they found her…she was barely alive…we didn’t recognise each other. I, the deranged animal. Her, the scarred victim. 

He destroyed everything he touched. 

That sick piece of shit. That son of a bitch…my best friend. Sick.


End file.
